


The ABC̶'̶s̶  O's of Sex

by tabaqui



Series: YMMV Tropes [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Anal Sex, Bucky Barnes Will Kick Your Ass, Dorks, Fight Sex, Knotting, M/M, Marijuana, Recreational Drug Use, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-05-12 14:46:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19231249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tabaqui/pseuds/tabaqui
Summary: Not your typical A/B/O fic.  Clint and Natasha are harsh critics, Peter didn't deserve this, Bucky Barnes will kick your ass, Steve is one classy motherfucker.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the ever-lovely Darkhavens, cheered on by and talked over with the ever-supportive Sweptawaybayou.  
> *luffs you both*
> 
> First in a series (I hope!) of my take on some popular tropes.

"Get the fuck out of my fucking way," Bucky snarls, and the man blocking the bus aisle jerks sideways, clearing a path. Bucky stalks past him, aiming for the pole by the rear door, feeling a surge of disgust when he thinks about sitting down. About touching _anything_ in the bus, really. Every inch seems grubby, tacky, overlaid with too many smells. Too many other hands and bodies.

He stands there by the pole, elbow hooked around it, hands in his pockets. He's clenching and unclenching his fists, seething, as the bus jerks into motion. The whole fucking thing smells like armpit and bad fish. As he stands there, swaying with the motion, he notices a slow drift of bodies _away_ from him. Well. He _is_ putting out the 'really having a bad fucking day' vibe right now. Probably smells like a bonfire, acid rain, iron. _Angry_.

The ones that move away are all men, all Betas, a couple of them with noses tucked down into shirt collars. The women on the car all look...wary. A little nervous, but not upset. If he catches their eye, they look away. But they don't _look_ away, they just turn their heads as far as they can, but their eyes keep coming back to him.

The men crowd as far as possible _away_ from him, until it's just Bucky and one Beta, who's staring _really_ hard, about eight women, and two little kids. The kids are _cute_ , just damn _adorable_. One is a very dark-skinned little girl in a bright white sundress patterned with yellow ducks and pink bunnies. Her puff of hair is combed up and off her face, peeking out over a wide, matching headscarf. The other one, a little boy, has longish blond hair, all curly and wispy around his face, and the brightest blue eyes. Bucky's bending down, grinning at the kids, saying something stupid and obvious in that way that adults always do when it hits him.

Kids. On the _bus_. And he thinks they're _cute_. He snaps upright, backpedalling, slapping at the stop request above the window.

"Motherfucking whore of a shit-eating bastard," Bucky growls, ignoring the mothers when they both glare at him. He's in fucking _heat_.

 

Omegas are the rarest type. Of the eight-million plus of teeming humanity inhabiting New York, only about three thousand are Omegas. Two thousand, eight hundred and seventy two, to be exact, and Bucky Barnes is one of them. There have always been Omegas in his family: his great-great-great Grandma on his Ma's side, and that great Grandma's third cousin, a great Aunt, several cousins of various removes… It's a woman thing, an X-chromo thing, a mitochondrial thing. Or so they say. Bucky doesn't actually give a shit. All he knows is that, right here, right _now_ , in the middle of his fucking day, he's in heat.

In retrospect, his ferociously bad mood, his microscopically short temper, and his inexplicable urge (that hit at two a.m on Wednesday) to order about a dozen super-plush, sherpa-lined micro-fleece blankets, is starting to make a little more sense.

Fuck, he's ripped all the tags off those fucking blankets already, there's no sending them back now. 

And, _and_ , he'd actually got up _early_ this morning - like, before nine a.m. early - to go down the street and buy a whole lemon-berry cake, layered with lemon curd and fresh berries and topped with Amaretto-spiked cream cheese icing. Which he'd then proceeded to take back to bed with him and eat over half of. 

He whips out his phone and calls his Ma, because he was going over to the Barnes family home to have her show him how to make Nan Hubbard's five-layer lasagne… Oh _fuck_ , nesting and cooking, holy _shit_ , how is he this _stupid_?

"Hi, Ma...no, I'm good...no, _really_ , I'm - _Ma!_ , I'm fine, I'm fu-freaking fine. Except I wanna eat all the cake, and I bought a dozen fu-freaking blankets Wednesday. Yeah. No, those micro-fleece ones, with the sherpa lining? ...Yeah, _all_ the ocean tones, they - Ma! That's not why I called…. Yeah, I ain't gonna be by, I gotta… It's fucking _heat_ , Ma… No, it's fine, I'm going to Sully's, I'll call you after… Love you too, Ma...okay, bye… _bye_."

Bucky closes his phone and snaps, "What the fuck are _you_ looking at?" and the man chalking specials on a board outside a market lifts his hands up, face averted, not engaging, not even _looking_ at him. _Good_. He kinda wants to punch the next asshole who _looks_ at him. 

He stomps on down the street, and his next call is to Sam, because Sam is expecting to participate in the eating of said lasagne, and is going to be pretty disappointed. Sam's a Beta, and he's in a partnership with Riley - has been for years. So Sam is _safe_ ; gotta have that one fallback, just in case.

"...fuck me, Sam, this is only the third time it's happened, it just didn't click… Yeah, yeah, fuck - _Hey_ , are you gonna keep moving? Or are you gonna stand there in the middle of the fucking sidewalk like you never seen a God damn pigeon in your fucking life? Holy fuck!

"...Jesus, I know, I'm heading there right now… Yeah, why don't you go on over to my Ma's, anyway? She's got all the stuff, she might as well teach _somebody_. Sure, man, I'll text her - motherfucking _asshole_ , this is a fucking _crosswalk_ you shit-for-brains!"

"...I'm going, I'm going, fuck! Okay, bye."

Bucky stops his headlong stalk down Columbia Street, panting. His heart's pounding, his belly is quivering. He can feel his cock getting hard; can feel that deep, internal clench that sends waves of shivery pleasure all through him. He doesn't want his Ma, and he doesn't want _home_. He wants a chase - he wants a _fight_. He fucking _needs_ it.

And he knows exactly where he's going to get it.

He sends a quick text to his Ma, fingers shaking. That's Sam taken care of, then. He looks up, tucking his phone away, and turns around, heading back up to Carroll Street. Thank fuck he dressed casual, in his favorite old Converse and worn jeans, a basic black t-shirt under a washed-soft denim jacket. Stuff he can move in, because he's gonna _move_.

Across the street, a guy gets out of a taxi and starts to walk. He stops, sniffs the air, and turns around. The second he sees Bucky, his face is flushing and his eyes are going wide, and he heads straight Bucky's way, not even checking for oncoming traffic as he half-jogs across the street. 

Bucky grins, a sharp-toothed, wolfy grin. And then he's moving fast, a long-legged stride that he can keep up for blocks and blocks. It's not even a mile from the Carroll Street/Columbia Street stop to Sully's Gym and Weights, down on Sullivan in Red Hook. It's the best place Bucky can think of, for the fight that's coming, because Red Hook is _his_ neighborhood, his territory, where he'll feel safest, and strongest. 

He moves through the streets like a wolf on the hunt, and he picks up strays as he goes: Alphas, who are almost as rare as Omegas, and unattached Betas. A comet's tail of men and women pound down Van Brunt after him, glazed eyes and mouths open, catching his scent, and Bucky just keeps moving, sometimes breaking into a jog, until the gym is three blocks away. Then he breaks into a run, and the pack chasing after does the same, and Bucky can't help it, he's yelling as he runs, laughing, leaping over obstacles and darting like a swallow. On top of the world; so fucking ready.

 

Sully's is in a reclaimed warehouse, all red brick and cracked concrete, a block from the Buttermilk Channel. Bucky bursts through the door in a whirl of early-summer sun and humid air, panting, sweating. He's broadcasting _come and get me_ and _hands fucking off_ in equal measure. The kid at the desk - Peter - opens his mouth to ask for Bucky's ID, catches a whiff, and practically levitates backwards. He cringes against the office door, wide-eyed, as Bucky slaps his wallet and keys down on the desk for safe-keeping. He swipes his card over the scanner, and then he's shoving through the door and up the wide, worn stairs to the gym proper. 

Behind him he can hear the street door slamming open, and the pack that's followed him crashing in, trapped between the ones behind and the door that only opens for members.

They'll be along soon enough. 

Up in the gym, about half the people working out take one sniff and are gone, diving for the locker rooms or the exit, keeping clear. The other half get that flushed, desperate look that the people in the pack had, and Bucky strips off his jacket and t-shirt and throws them down. Three men and one woman immediately pounce on them, snatching them up and rubbing their faces on the sweat-damp fabric. Bucky yanks off shoes and socks and hurls a Converse at a circling gym-rat, a thick-necked Alpha whose open-mouthed stare is pissing Bucky off.

"Fuck _off_ , motherfucker," he says, teeth bared, and the Alpha ducks aside, going for a sock. "Fucking perv, _Jesus_."

Bucky works open the button-fly of his jeans and skins out of them, leaving him in nothing but dark-red boxer briefs. The material clearly shows his hard on, his Prince Albert, and the bulge of his swollen balls. There's a shout from down the stairs, the door crashes open, and the pack floods in.

Mixed in with the random Alphas and Betas Bucky picked up on his run are gym staff, in blaze-orange Sully t-shirts and black and orange filter masks, with the Sully logo over their noses and mouths. Two bulky men and a woman nearly six feet tall, all Betas. Bucky laughs, and jumps up into the boxing ring in the center of the room, standing on the ropes. The staff will keep the crowd in line, keep him from getting mobbed. 

"Here we go, here we go, fuck yeah, fucking _come on_ , come and get me, come on, come _on_!"

He scrubs his hands back through his hair, dragging out tangles. It long ago fell out of the loose bun he'd had it twisted into, and is falling around his shoulders, damp with humidity and sweat. His skin is tingling, his cock practically throbbing, and he's _wet_ , he's wet all over, he's so fucking turned on.

Some of the Betas in the crowd are scuffling, pushing and snarling and slapping. Two Alphas fall on each other, punching, and a ring clears around them fast, the staff moving in. The woman stays near Bucky, arms crossed, and he snarls at her.

She ducks her head, down, away, and moves over a couple feet and Bucky settles down a little and watches the show. More people are pushing in - the last of the pack, he guesses. About fifty people in all, surging up the stairs and fanning out through the gym. A little less than half are women, most around Bucky's age of late twenties, a couple are older. Peter, also masked, is moving around the machines, locking down weights and putting stuff in storage lockers, ignored by the crowd.

Front door must be locked, then, Bucky thinks, and looks over the pack - over his choices. One of the Alphas lands a hard punch, and the other guy's lip splits, bright-red blood streaking down his chin. The scent of it hits the air, thick and salt and iron, and Bucky _yells_ , and the crowd does too.

A Beta with delusions of grandeur vaults into the boxing ring, reaching, and Bucky springs off the ropes and piledrives into him, sending him reeling back, with a bloody nose, bruised ribs, a future black eye. He crawls out of the ring, slinking away, the crowd around him hissing and shoving at the first loser of the day. 

Another Beta tries it not two minutes later, a woman in business casual. She gets in close enough to touch and Bucky screeches in outrage. She goes down, hard, when his fist connects with the point of her chin, and the Amazon staff woman drags her out of the ring and puts her in the recovery position over by the wall. 

One of the Alphas is there, too, and the one that stayed on his feet is fighting, a little desperately, with a new, woman Alpha. 

Bucky bounces around the ring, shadow-boxing, making ululating howls of excitement. He wants another challenger, he wants something _real_.

The fighting Alpha decks his opponent and moves, fast, toward the ring, toward Bucky, and Bucky meets him with a grin and a shout, dodging his hands, ducking under his reaching arms, kicking his knee out from under him. He goes down, lunging for Bucky's knees as he falls, and Bucky topples in a flurry of convulsive shudders, his whole body fighting to free his legs, punching whatever comes close.

The Alpha tries to roll him just as Bucky's curling down to rabbit-punch his kidneys, and he elbows Bucky right in the face. Bucky feels the sharp, hot sting of a split lip; tastes blood. The Alpha has frozen, and Bucky gets a foot free and kicks him right in the face. 

He's out like a light. 

Bucky bounces back to his feet, grinning, blood on his teeth, and half the room falls into yipping fights, the pack surging from one side to the other, Betas and Alphas scrambling and slugging and tackling each other, frenzied by the smell of Bucky's blood, by the pulse of wet heat his victory brought to him. 

He shouts, arms up, that belly-deep clench happening over and over, like a phantom cock in him, fucking, and it feels so fucking _good_ , and he needs it for real, he needs it right _now_. "C'mon you motherfuckers, c'mon and fight me, fucking losers, fucking _weak ass losers_ , come on, come on!"

Down below, at street level, there's a sudden crash, and another, and then someone is pounding up the stairs. All Bucky can see at first is a head of bright hair, sticking up in sweaty points, and then the rest follows. _Alpha_ , fuck yes. Alpha's Alpha: broad shoulders, deep chest, trim waist, muscled thighs, dressed in light grey sweats, a tight white t-shirt, and worn running shoes.

He's _big_ \- bigger than Bucky - but moving with a predator's grace. Half the room goes at him, snarling, cursing, and he _growls_ back, lashing out with a lightning-fast punch that sends one pushy Beta reeling. After that, the pack settles down a little, circling and sniffing and eyeing the late-comer.

He's fucking _gorgeous_ , and he smells like sex and sugar and summer. Bucky's mouth is practically watering. It's a certainty that other parts of his anatomy are taking fucking notice.

In his wake, up the stairs, is another blond, only shorter and stockier, and a slim, red-headed woman, both of whom dig filter masks out of pockets and get them on, fast. They look like they've been running, too; the guy is in black and purple shorts and a white a-line, the woman in pink track pants and a midriff-style Under Armor shirt in pale green. The blond guy, after one wild look around the room, goes to check on the people unconscious or close to, by the wall. The woman gives Big Blond a look of pure irritation and heads right for the ring, for the tall woman on staff, and Bucky dismisses her - the other - to watch Big Blond.

He's watching Bucky right back, a blue-eyed stare so intense it practically burns. Bucky feels his belly clench tight, and his ass, and deeper, a wave of pure lust, pure need, rolling through him. It's hot and sticky-sweet and almost overwhelming, and he's pushing out pheromones, thick as honey, and Bucky can see it hit the pack.

Bucky's panting with his mouth open, all but licking the air for more of this guy's scent, and he winces when two of the remaining Alphas and a Beta jump the guy. Big Blond staggers and almost goes down; he shoves the Beta and clocks one of the Alphas, and then the whole room is fighting, an all-out brawl like Bucky's never seen before.

At least two other Betas and one Alpha manage to get up into the ring, and Bucky takes them down, snarling and dodging and kicking, knuckles bloody and split lip burning from the sweat dripping into it, his hair a tangled mess, his cock _aching_. There's a spreading patch of damp on the front of his briefs, and down between his thighs, and he feels so fucking _good_. He feels warm and limber and strong and _alive_. He feels like he could run a thousand miles and not get tired, and he licks his lips and gasps for air and jumps up on the ropes, yelling. 

Big Blond is working his way through the crowd, left, right, left, spinning on his feet, kicking and shoving and punching, hard and fast. The losers are piling up by the wall, and a couple of the Betas slink away, down the stairs, giving up, because Big Blond….

He's a fucking powerhouse, he's a damn _dream_. Moving with the upright poise and grace of a dancer, and the brute strength of a bull, his t-shirt is soaked almost translucent, ripped at one shoulder, and his cock is tenting out the front of his sweats.

One more Alpha, reeling and bloody, snarls in Big Blond's face, and Big Blond _roars_ back at him, and lands a solid, crunching hit. The Alpha goes down and that's it, that's all. Big Blond has won.

Almost.

"Hey, big boy, hey there, pretty thing, c'mon, come and get me, think you can?" Bucky pants, leaning on the ropes, arms spread wide, back arched, hips rolling, just a little.

Big Blond stares at him, gasping, and then he reaches down and yanks the hem of his shirt up and peels it off, throwing it aside. He stands there for a moment, sweat making his body gleam, his belly heaving and the tops of his hip-bones showing above the waist of the sweats, and then he moves. Two long strides that turn into a run, and he's vaulting up into the ring, not even touching the ropes. He lands hard, one knee, one fist on the ratty canvas, the whole thing ringing and quaking under his weight, and then he stands up slowly.

Bucky backs away from him, wide-eyed, grinning maniacally. Jesus _fuck_ , this guy, holy shit. He's a fucking mountain, he's a plate of cake and cream, Bucky _wants_ him. "Fucking hell, Blondie, you're so fucking dramatic-"

Big Blond _moves_ , practically pounces, and Bucky yelps and skips aside, lashing out with one foot as Big Blond spins and leaps again. This time Bucky rolls over his back, kicking at a kidney, shouting with laughter.

Around and around they go, Big Blond trying to grab him, hold him, get _on_ him, and Bucky's landing the hits Big Blond won't. Kicks and a few punches, a headbutt, an elbow almost to the groin, deflected to his thigh. Bucky's adding to the scuffs and bruises Big Blond's already got (and hell, _Bucky's_ got them too, now), but...he just. Does. Not. _Stop_ , even though he's dripping sweat, panting hard, unsteady on his feet. 

And Bucky's starting to wear down, starting to stumble when he spins away, gasping for air, staggering as he circles. Christ, he wants this Alpha. He wants that fucking _cock_ , but he can't just...give up. He can't.

Maybe it shows in his face, or maybe the Alpha is just that good (or that desperate). The next time he lunges, and Bucky lashes out, the Alpha just plows through it and throws a punch that sends Bucky reeling, dazed. 

And then that's it, he's done, it's _over_ , Big Blond is on him, wrapping arms and legs around him, hot as a furnace, slick with sweat. They both slam down onto the canvas, Big Blond sheltering Bucky's skull with his hands. His huge, huge fucking hands. He's shoving his face into Bucky's neck, breathing hard, and Bucky feels Big Blond's tongue lapping up the tendon there, pressing on the wild tattoo of the pulse just under Bucky's jaw.

"So good, so good, so good," Big Blond rumbles, and Bucky shudders all over. Then Blondie is hauling them both up to their knees, shoving his sweats and underwear down, basically shredding Bucky's briefs off. Blond's cock is _gorgeous_ , uncut and thick and flushed dark, standing out almost straight from his body, smeared wet at the tip.

Bucky's is wetter, precome stringing away from the head and the silver ring there, and Big Blond makes a groaning, whining noise, yanking Bucky into him and grinding them together. One huge hand is on Bucky's ass, the other knotted in his hair, and he's staring down at Bucky from the one or two inches he has on him, even on their knees.

"Fuck, you have- God, that's _perfect_ , _you're_ perfect, you're _mine_ ," Big Blond says, and he's rutting into Bucky, and Bucky's pushing back, cocks sliding and rubbing together. Bucky gets both hands up around Big Blond's neck and pulls him down, and they're kissing, panting, gasping into each other's mouths. Bucky can taste his sweat, can taste blood, can taste that sugar-summer taste, all smoke and caramel.

"Mine, fuck, say it, all mine- Oh _God_ ," Blondie moans, and crushes Bucky to him.

"Fuck yeah, fuck, sweetheart, all fucking yours," Bucky gasps out, and Big Blond is shaking, keening, frenzied, his hands everywhere, and just like that, Bucky's coming, _hard_ , nails digging into Big Blond's back as he ruts his cock into the hot, slick skin of his belly.

And then Blondie's coming, too, gasping out incomprehensible sounds, dragging Bucky impossibly closer, come hot and slick between them. The scent of it - of them - is rich and musky, savory, salty; thick on Bucky's tongue.

It seems to go on forever, but finally, they're done, both of them oversensitive and twitching. They slump down sideways onto the canvas of the ring, laying there in a heap for long, long moments as they fight for air. Bucky comes back to himself first, blinking up at the ceiling, his left hand idly petting and petting through Big Blond's hair, his cheek against Bucky's chest. He can feel Big Blond doing the same, petting down Bucky's ribs and hip, over and over. Bucky lifts his head, nudges at him, and Big Blond finally looks up. 

He's got the world's dopiest grin on his face.

"Christ, that was good," Bucky says, and Blondie laughs.

"Yeah. It was...really amazing. I'm Steve."

"Bucky," Bucky says, and they both laugh, giddy and stupid. 

A noise suspiciously like a strangled cough makes Bucky jerk and look around, snarling. Steve does the same, scowl creasing his brow. They both register, at the exact same moment, the other blond guy, the redhead, and the four staff standing in a line outside the ring, all still masked up. Despite that, Peter looks like he's about to die; the redhead looks like she's about to bust a gut laughing, but is doing her best to contain it.

One by one, solemnly, they flip over pieces of paper that appear to be flyers ripped off the gym bulletin board. The tall woman goes first.

"9.7, 9.9, 9.8," Bucky reads aloud. The redhead flips hers over. "6.9- Hey!"

"Tasha!" Steve yelps, but he's laughing. The stocky blond is next, head ducked, shoulders shaking.

"8.5? What the fuck do I gotta do to impress you people?" Bucky asks. 

"Make it last longer than three minutes?" the redhead - Tasha - says, absolutely deadpan, and Bucky snorts.

"So not invited to the wedding," Steve mumbles into Bucky's hair, and Bucky feels an all-over rush of heat, a tingling flush of shock and delight. He clutches Steve a little closer.

Peter shuffles his feet, and looks up at them with wide eyes, and flips his paper over.

" _Ten!_ Yes! The crowd goes wild!" Bucky crows, and then he's flopping back on the canvas, laughing, and Steve is laughing with him, tugging him in close. Their laughter peters out as they both realize they're naked, covered in shared bodily fluids, and they're _both_ getting hard again.

Bucky is looking around, wondering where _any_ of his clothes went, when a pair of sweats and a t-shirt land in the ring, followed by his sneakers.

"Peter said you had a change in your locker," the blond guys says.

"Thanks, Clint," Steve says back, and then he looks down at Bucky.

" _Please please please_ tell me you live nearby."

"Three minutes if we run," Bucky says, twisting around and reaching for the clothes, and Clint about-faces and marches away, dragging Peter with him.

 

Bucky's apartment is over a wholesale spice import store, on the corner of Van Brunt and Sullivan. It's not one of those amazing lofts you see on TV; it's the leftover storage and office space of some long-forgotten business, with crumbling brick on the street-side wall and crumbling plaster on all the others. It was probably updated last some time in the mid-seventies. The floors are broken up into different levels, so you have to step _up_ to come in, and then _up_ into the kitchen and bath, and _down_ into the bedroom. Its saving grace is that the Sullivan-side wall has two huge, floor-to-ceiling windows that Bucky thinks might have just been a hole, at some point, where product was winched down to the street.

That, and the last resident demolished some kind of closet-cum-office and turned the space into a five-by-five pocket deck off the kitchen. Bucky can grill on a tiny hibachi, and has a standing rack of kitchen herbs, and two folding chairs for him and a friend in nice weather.

The upshot of all _this_ is, when Bucky and Steve come staggering into his apartment (Steve misses the first step and very nearly breaks his face on Bucky's floor), their wild career into the shower ends with both of them standing there making sad-faces, because Bucky's shower is like an upright coffin, and they both won't _fit_.

"I gotta get clean," Bucky says, a little wild-eyed, because he and Steve stink of the Alphas and Betas they fought, and Bucky's pretty sure the canvas in the ring is from 1930-something, and probably a half-inch thicker than it was back then due to ground-in grime.

"Just- Can we-?" Steve says, wedging his fucking shoulders under the (too low) shower head and reaching for Bucky, and Bucky almost, _almost_ goes for it.

"No, fuck, the _door_ won't close, it'll flood downstairs, and we do _not_ want Mrs. Kudrimoti up here, she is five-feet nothing of lime-green sari and disappointed eyebrows that can make a grown man cry."

"She made you _cry_?" Steve asks, and Bucky dials the water on to shut him up. And also so he doesn't have to admit that, yes, when he got drunk and threw up on the front step, she made him feel so bad, he not only teared up, he got down on his hands and knees and scrubbed the step with bleach. In the middle of one of the worst hangovers of his entire life.

"Just get 'em off you!" Bucky says, above the rattle of water on tile and Steve yelping as the ice-cold spray pours down.

Bucky drinks about half a gallon of water from the bathroom tap and strips out of his gym clothes while Steve scrubs. They switch places, Bucky kicking Steve's abandoned sweat pants off the drain so the shower won't overflow. Steve curses, trying to dry off with a towel that just about covers his chest, and nothing else, while trying not to put his elbow through Bucky's medicine cabinet. Christ, his bathroom is small, when did _that_ happen?

When Bucky shuts off the water and steps out onto the bathmat, Steve drops the wet towel on Bucky's head and scrubs, then rakes the towel down Bucky's front and back, blotting off about a third of the water.

"Good enough, let's go, where's the bedroom?" Steve asks, throwing the towel over his shoulder. It lands on the toilet, the lid of which, unfortunately, Bucky has left up. 

" _Shit!_ " Bucky says, and lunges, only to have Steve stop him short with an arm like an iron bar. 

"Fuck it, I'll find it," he says, and then he's _lifting Bucky up_ , hands on Bucky's waist, and just _goes_. Bucky yells, ducking so he doesn't take out the ceiling light, and grabs on, arms around Steve's shoulders, thighs around his waist and oh, look at that, that cold shower didn't interfere with Steve's hard-on _at all_.

"Fuck, I want you in me," Bucky says, and his heat, briefly on hold while they got somewhere more private ( _safe, secure, den, nest, alone_ ), flares right back up into raging, incandescent life. Steve, glassy-eyed from the blast of pheromones, staggers out of the bathroom (nearly wiping out on the damn stairs again), and down into Bucky's bedroom. Yay, Bucky remembered to close the blind before he left, and the room is a mellow pink-gold from the rose-amber shade.

The space _just_ holds a bed, a narrow wardrobe, and a long pipe for Bucky's clothes along one wall. The bed's a Queen, at least - sometimes you have to treat yourself - but it touches the wall on two sides and hits Steve at the knees. He goes down like a pole-axed tree, squashing Bucky under him. Bucky is definitely gonna have a couple bruises from that, too, and he does not give one single, flying fuck.

"In me, in me, holy _fuck_ , you need to be _in me_." Bucky writhes around, trying to get Steve to just fucking _slide down_ , and Steve's just laying there, crushing Bucky under all six-foot-whatever of hot, hard, built Alpha.

"Slow down, honey, I got ya-"

"Fuck that," Bucky snarls. He snakes his head around to the side and _bites_ , hard, on Steve's trapezius muscle. It's like biting into a fucking ribeye steak, just _solid_ , and Bucky feels Steve's hips grind down, thrusting forward frantically.

"Yeah, okay, fuck that," Steve says, and his voice is kind of breathless and squeaky. "Wait, no, no, fuck." He grabs a wandering hand and pins it to the bed, then lifts up enough to look Bucky square in the face. "I'm on the pill but - you - condoms?" Steve asks, and Bucky rolls his eyes.

 

Every Omega can get pregnant. Omegas with male 'equipment' have a little something extra that no Alpha or Beta male has. Any male Omega that's not in heat while having sex with another male can have your standard dick-in-ass sex, and it's as good or as awful as that generally is.

A male Omega who _is_ in heat with a male Alpha (and it's always an Alpha), has that same sort of sex, except…. There's an opening and a secondary channel a couple inches inside the _primary_ one, and heat makes that channel engorge, and that opening soften and blossom, and the Alpha who knows what he's doing will push in and then...push _in_. In the natural course of things, there's a womb, and eggs, and eventually _babies_. (Omegas tend to have twins and triplets and even quads.)

Omegas get a few extra little glands along in there, too, which act a whole lot like the joy-buzzer men have. Something Bucky is _intimately_ familiar with, because even not in heat, everything there is a just a little more sensitive and extra-feely, and that's why Omegas tend to buy dildos with little bumps and nubs, and pick out partners with delightfully-placed piercings.

Or maybe that's just Bucky.

"No condoms. I'm clean."

"Me too, me too," Steve says, and he's a little breathless, and maybe that has to do with Bucky arching up and grinding and dragging his nails down Steve's back. "I just don't wanna knock you up," which is probably the tackiest way to put it ever, and Bucky stares up at him.

"What are you, in a fucking revival of ' _Grease_ '? ' _Knock you up_ ', Jesus, what the fuck?"

" _Bucky_ , I wanna fuck you so hard we dig a hole in your fucking mattress, but I don't wanna have a kid right now, do you have a fucking condom or what?" Steve says, Alpha growl in his voice, and Bucky shivers and shudders and hisses, teeth bared.

"Fucker. No condoms, I had a hysterectomy the day I turned eighteen, I'm good, no fucking ass-babies for me."

Steve stares at him for a moment. "You're picking on me for 'knock you up', and then you say ' _ass babies_ '?"

"Jesus fuck, fucking fuck me, you fucking fuck!"

Steve stares a moment longer and then snorts out a semi-hysterical laugh, and Bucky does, too, but he stops pretty quick, because Steve rears up onto his knees and flips Bucky like a pancake. He drags Bucky up by his hips and shoves between his thighs, and then he's pushing that beautiful, thick, perfect Alpha cock up against Bucky's ass and forward, rubbing over his balls and up the underside of Bucky's cock.

Bucky groans. He's face down, shoulders braced against the mattress. He reaches back and up with both hands, fingers skimming over Steve's balls, his cock, pressing him _up_ , rubbing over the wet head, moving the foreskin. Just _playing_ , feeling, his hips doing little grinding circles down and his ass clenching tight.

Steve's breath catches, and then he pulls back, trailing nipping kisses down Bucky's back, his hands tight on Bucky's hips. Then he's leaning in and _licking_ , from Bucky's taint to the top of his crack, and in about two minutes flat, Bucky is a quivering, groaning, shuddering mess.

"Fuck, please, Steve, c'mon, _fuck_ -"

"Love how you taste," Steve mumbles, licking harder - sliding his tongue into Bucky's ass, pushing, his big hands tugging Bucky open, and Bucky's knees are about to give out, his thighs are trembling, his belly fluttering, and that secondary channel inside him is engorging, he's _opening_ , he knows. 

"Get _in_ me," Bucky gasps out, clawing at the sheets, and Steve gives one last, long lick and then rises up on his knees and pushes the tip of his cock against Bucky's hole, lightly, lightly, lightly, rubbing…. Bucky ruts back, _hard_ , and that big, beautiful cock-head pops right in.

They both freeze for a moment, and then Steve makes this desperate sort of moaning noise, all breathless-gasping, and he just pushes _in_ and angles himself downward, heading for that secondary, close-held hole, pure Alpha-instinct. Then he's pushing in _again_ , breaching Bucky a second time, and the head of his cock rubs over those extra little glands and Bucky's soft, gasping ' _oh, ooh, ooh_ ' becomes something a lot louder.

He's so loud that Steve shoves two fingers into Bucky's mouth and Bucky bites down, sucking. Steve pushes deeper, panting, and gets his other hand on Bucky's cock and then he just...fucks. Fucks in hard, not terribly fast, but steady, like a fucking machine, hitting those spots over and over, pulling back just enough that every time he pushes back in, he's opening Bucky up _again_.

Bucky can feel those deep muscles working, clenching, fluttering, making him so fucking wet, slippery-hot inside, spilling out onto his balls and thighs when Steve pulls back. His cock is spilling, too; pre-come stringing away, all over Steve's hand, and the whole room smells like salt and musk and sugar-smoke, Alpha and Omega.

"Steve, oh, Ssssteve, oh _fuck_ , Steve, Sssssss….fuck, fuck, _fuck_." Bucky can barely talk, barely breathe, and Steve curls down over him, panting into his hair, licking and biting at his throat, his shoulders, his back. He's not even jacking Bucky off, just holding, squeezing, his thumb occasionally rubbing over Bucky's PA, and every time it happens, Bucky goes tight and hot and shivery all over, keening, head thrown back, hands knotting in the sheets.

Steve's thrusts are getting faster - he's grinding in deeper - and suddenly he drags his fingers away from Bucky's mouth, grabs a fistful of his hair, and shoves Bucky's head _down_. Then his mouth is on the nape of Bucky's neck, sucking hard, biting kisses into the skin there, and Bucky's so fucking close, he's _so fucking close_ , his whole body is clenching, throbbing, hot-cold-hot, skin tingling, heart pounding...

And then Steve gasps, and bites down _hard_ , just a tiny bit to the left of Bucky's spine, right up in his hairline. Mating bite, claiming bite, Alpha bite. It's like lightning going through Bucky, like burning ice and scalding champagne, and he rasps out a grinding, growling cry as he comes.

Steve shoves in frantically once, twice more, and then _he_ is coming, and his teeth are bearing down harder, and Bucky can feel Steve's cock throbbing inside him even as Steve's hand is finally moving, clumsily jacking him. But it doesn't even matter, Bucky barely needs it, he's coming so hard, the fucking _breeze_ could get him off.

Steve's cock presses in tighter, and then Bucky feels it, the hot stretch of Steve's knot as it grows, sealing that second opening, keeping all that come in place. Just the thought makes Bucky keen, orgasm dragging out longer, and no fucking _wonder_ people get knocked up, who the fuck can think through _this_?

Steve is shaking, hips working even if he can only move about an inch, making this low, tearing, animal noise down in his chest that Bucky can feel against his back. Steve's breath is hot on his neck and Bucky arches and pushes and whines, and Steve bites down _harder_.

Steve takes them down, onto their right sides. He's got his shoulder under Bucky's head, and his arm curves down, to wrap around Bucky's cock. His left leg shoves Bucky's left one up and back, and he plants his heel against Bucky's right thigh and the bed and uses it for leverage, so he can keep pushing his hips in and in as they lay there.

As his knot pulses and swells and presses against those spots, making Bucky see sparks and stars and fireworks behind his closed eyelids, Steve bites down again, shaking his head a little, and then lets go, licking and kissing. Bucky can feel the heat there, the bruise that's already forming.

"Fuck, oh...honey, Christ, that was so...so-"

"Good, so good, oh God," Steve says. He wraps his arm around Bucky's chest, and when Bucky goes to move Steve's hand off his cock, whining from the sensitivity, shivering, Steve pins his hand down on the bed.

"No, no, let me, you can come again, gonna feel so good, let me," Steve says, and cups Bucky's balls, tugging them. He slides the tip of his pinky through Bucky's PA and tugs that too, and Bucky hisses, writhes.

But it's true, he's getting hard, it's ramping up again, and Steve never got soft at all, and he's still coming. Every thirty seconds or so he gasps, hips jerking, his body going tight, arm crushing Bucky to him. Bucky's slick with sweat and come, panting for air, his whole body humming and singing and flushing, hot and cold. He's hanging on with both hands to the arm across his chest, and Steve feels _huge_ inside him, that second hole, that second channel swollen and hot around him, so sensitive Bucky wants to scream.

Instead, he kicks at Steve's thigh with his heel.

"Cramp, motherfucker, getting a cramp, you gotta-"

"Yeah, okay," Steve says, and rolls them both just a little, so Bucky's halfway on his belly, his cock trapped between his body and Steve's maddening, rubbing, squeezing hand, his arms trapped under them both, and Steve sprawled mostly on top of him.

Held down, held still, helpless, stretched open wide and pinned by his Alpha, Bucky can't do a fucking thing except breathe (sort of), and clench down, and try to grind his hips down into Steve's hand a little harder. And then that comment to 'Tasha' at the gym comes back to him, and Bucky squirms harder.

"Did'ja mean it about the...wedding?" Bucky asks, muffled in the sheets, and Steve kisses his shoulder and his bicep and his ear, snuffling around in Bucky's hair.

"Yeah. I mean...yes? I mean...um. I want to but...I always thought I'd do it better...than that."

"You mean, better than naked in front of...total strangers in a public gym?"

Steve huffs a shaky laugh, then groans as Bucky's whole body clenches down, holding him. "I wanted to...do it someplace...classy. Like the bowling alley."

Bucky snorts into the sheet and spits hair out of his mouth and Steve lets him up a little, shuddering as he comes again, panting against Bucky's back. Bucky's halfway to his third orgasm in the same hour, and he just wants to get his mouth on Steve. And his teeth.

"Got me a real winner here, fuck, _oh_ , fuck me, yeah, yeah, like that." 

Steve does something wonderful with his hips and his hand and his mouth, and Bucky feels like he's dissolving into a puddle of sunshine and sugar syrup and fire. He has no idea how long they lay there, how long Steve is in him. Feels like forever. Feels really _good_.

By the time Steve finally goes soft, and slips out (and fuck, Bucky feels the space where he isn't anymore almost aching with the need to be filled again), they're both exhausted, sticky, thirsty, and sore. They lay there for a long, long moment, just breathing, until Bucky gets himself organized enough to elbow Steve, hard. Steve grunts and rolls off him, and Bucky flops onto his back and gasps for air.

Steve's big hand comes down on his hip, and Bucky looks over to see him blinking sleepily, his hair all matted down on one side, spiked up and sweat-dark on the other. He's got marks - bruises, scuffs - coming up all over him from the fight, and Bucky knows he looks the same.

"We gotta wait a year, though. I promised my Ma."

"Huh? Oh. Yeah, okay. Probably take that long to save up for the honeymoon, anyway."

"Where you gonna take me?" Bucky asks, struggling upright and peeling a corner of sheet off his thigh. It's...stiffish. It's not good.

"I dunno," Steve says, and he sits up, too, making a face at how his soft cock is stuck to his belly. "Fiji? Norway? Someplace fancy."

" _Fancy_ ," Bucky says, but he still feels all...warm and tingly and owned and _good_. He desperately needs a drink, and another fucking shower. "So, you ever...catch an Omega before?" he asks, scooting off the bed and gingerly stretching. He's gonna skip leg day for like a _week_.

"Nope. I, uh...I was pretty scrawny as a kid, didn't really hit full Alpha until I was eighteen. Then I got a growth spurt and full-on Alpha in the same year."

"Huh," Bucky says. Steve wobbles upright and grins down at Bucky.

"You ever get caught before?"

"Yeah, once. Sort of. First time, I was only twelve. Early bloomer," Bucky says, limping toward the kitchen. He's got some Black Cherry Shasta he's been saving for a special occasion, and this is it. He made a fucking special trip to the Greenwood Price Chopper to get 'em, so Steve had better appreciate it.

"The second time, the fucker that won told me he was gonna 'breed me full', and when I told him it wasn't happening, he ditched me before we even did anything." Bucky gets two Shastas out and hands one to Steve, who's looking stricken but also...pleased. _Happy_.

"What a fucking asshole. So I'm your first, and you're my first," Steve says, and his expression is so incredibly dopey, Bucky's not sure he can take it.

"Oh my God, yes, you big dork. Which is why I promised my Ma, if I got caught again..." Bucky pops the soda can open and takes a huge swig, and belches. "Damn, I needed that."

Steve takes a drink, too, and makes a kind of 'what the hell?' face. "You really like this?"

"Wedding's off," Bucky says, but he's dragging Steve to him, hand on his neck, pulling him down and kissing him hard, all teeth and tongue, laughing when he sticks the cold can accidentally into the small of Steve's back and Steve yelps like a kicked puppy. Then they're kissing slower, softer, just standing there, pressed up close, and Bucky doesn't know if its the heat, or the sex, or the orgasms, but…

He's really, really happy.

"You know,' Steve says, nuzzling into Bucky's hair. "I live right over on Pioneer. You wanna get another quick shower and we could...go over? I got a whole 'fridge full of good stuff. Real food. Actual drinks that don't taste like red dye and sadness."

"You sure know how to woo a guy, Steve."

"I've been working on my wooing."

"Good job," Bucky says, and his soda slips out of his hand and hits the floor, spraying everywhere.

Forever after, Bucky will associate love, and Steve, and the best day of his life with the scent of Black Cherry Shasta and come.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky's got the perfect six-month anniversary present. So does Steve. Sam doesn't wanna know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Officer Krupke, Riff, and 'I'm just misunderstood' is a reference from 'Gee, Officer Krupke!' from 'West Side Story'.
> 
> 1337 = 'leet', slang for 'elite'. Clint thinks he's so smooth.
> 
> See the end notes for a couple of warnings. Currently unbeta'd as Darkhavens is having computer issues, so feel free to point out any typos, etc.

Bucky jolts upright in bed, awakened from his half-doze by an ungodly noise. Like logs falling down stairs. Like _Steve_ \- Oh, shit. 

"Steve? You okay?"

"Oh my God, fuck, God _damn_ ," Steve says. Bucky can hear, faintly, the dying gurgle of the toilet finishing up a flush. In the early-morning gloom of the apartment, Bucky watches the black shape that is Steve come reeling through the bedroom doorway, skid down the stairs and land with a bone-shaking _thud_ on the mattress next to him. 

Bucky pats whatever body part is closest, which turns out to be Steve's ear.

"So...you're okay?"

"I think I broke my God damn _toe_ on your God damn _stairs_ ," Steve snarls, and Bucky rolls a little, stretching for his phone, sliding it off the charging plate. He wakes it up and gets the flashlight app on. Steve is laying on his side, his knee pulled up to this chest, arms wrapped around his (bruised) shin. He has a bruise on his elbow, too, and a lump on his head.

Bucky's apartment is really not very...Steve friendly. Everything seems built on a 1:10 (regular person) scale, and Steve is 1:20, or maybe 1:50.

"Lemme see," Bucky says, and Steve pushes his foot up, making a sorry-sounding little groan. Bucky shines the light on Steve's big toe, which is...looking pretty bruise-y, yeah, with a big chip and crease in the nail. Bucky gently palpates the joint and around the nail bed, and Steve closes his eyes and looks sad.

"Can you bend it?"

" _Ow_. Kind of. Is it broke?"

"How the fuck do I know? I'm a security specialist, not a medic."

Steve opens his eyes to glare at Bucky. "Then why are you poking it?"

"'Cause you let me." Bucky shuts the app off, and then turns the screen off, plunging them back into pre-dawn shadows. Out on the street, a truck makes a grinding, crushing sort of noise and motors away, leaving the odor of exhaust. Steve is shuffling around on the bed, dragging at pillows and stuffing them under his foot. Bucky rescues his own personal pillow from that fate and hugs it close. "You want me to get you some ice?"

"No," Steve says, and oh, there's his sulky _'I am Alpha and I am wronged'_ voice. Bucky always finds that tone fairly hilarious, but he feels that it's not exactly the right time to mock.

"You sure? I don't mind."

"Ice hurts," Steve says, and yanks at the covers, trying to get the sheets up over him. It's mid-May, so still a bit chilly in the mornings. Bucky helps him get the covers free from his pillow mound, and Steve pulls sheet and fleece blanket and Bucky's ratty _Thundercats_ duvet over him (thanks for the ongoing, traumatizing, horrifying embarrassment, Ma).

"You want some aspirin?" Bucky says, curling back down into his own spot and pressing his forehead to Steve's shoulder.

"You're all comfy," Steve says, which is _'Yes, please, or I'll die'_ in sulky Alpha-speak.

"You're such a fucking shit," Bucky says, and hauls his ass out of bed. It's barely been a month, but Bucky _really_ likes this guy.

 

"I really hate your stairs," Steve says, yawning, when they're properly up and having a late Sunday brunch. "And your shower, too," he adds, and then shoves a huge bite of French toast into his mouth.

"My shower hates you right back," Bucky says, and it probably does, since Steve had straightened up a little too quickly and rammed the showerhead with his _skull_ , causing it to become bent at an impossible angle. Mrs. Kudrimoti had _not_ been pleased. Bucky'd got the full-on, Disappointed Mother Eyebrows for that, with a side helping of Mouth-Purse of Irritation, Hand Gestures of Exasperation, and Probable Cursing in a Non-English Language.

"Bucky," Steve says, distorted through the toast, "why don't you just -"

" _Don't_ say it, Steve! Your fucking apartment isn't any better," Bucky snaps, and then he sighs, and stuffs his last piece of bacon into his mouth. Steve looks hurt, but Bucky doesn't wanna talk about it. Steve's apartment _isn't_ better. It's a studio, for one, and the surfaces that aren't covered with architectural drawings and weirdly-angled rulers and shit are covered with _art_ supplies. 

Don't get him wrong; Bucky fucking _loves_ that Steve is an honest-to-Christ _artist_ , whose five-by-five-foot sized watercolors practially vibrate off the canvas with color and motion and _life_ (and sell fairly regularly, thanks to two awesome exhibits at the Kentler).

But there's barely room in Steve's studio for _Steve_ , much less Bucky and all his stuff. And Steve telecommutes for his day job, so he's got to have a dedicated workstation for the ungodly expensive, hyper-advanced computer that has all the hundred-thousand dollar drafting software and crap on it. There's just no _space_.

Steve chews and swallows and puts on those big, sad eyes and Bucky snorts.

"Don't _even_ go there. Natasha told me she lets you use half her storage space in the basement of her building. And you _know_ my Ma's holding onto that fucking couch-thing for us. It wouldn't even fit up the damn stairs."

It's a gorgeous couch-thing. It's a rich, brown micro-suede with huge, puffy cushions and a bag of assorted chenille pillows in blues and greens (that perfectly match Bucky's stack of micro-fleece blankets, that he's hoarding in a Rubbermaid tote). It also weighs as much as a truck, and you could probably hold an orgy on it, once you push the huge, padded ottoman into the L-shape of the couch itself. Bucky has idly _imagined_ the orgy you could hold on that thing. He has no idea why his Ma bought it in the first place, since she used it approximately once and then had it bundled into storage.

"Yeah, I know, okay?" Steve says, and takes a gulp of his cranberry juice. Gross. "The thing is, I think I got a solution. I was talking to Clint -"

" _Clint_ ," Bucky says, because for fuck's sake. The guy's cool and all, but he's also a fucking trainwreck who's still wearing the same lame band t-shirts he got in _junior high_. Hootie and the Blowfish, _come on_.

"Yeah, _Clint_. He's got this place in Bed-Stuy -"

" _Bed-Stuy_ ," Bucky says, and Steve sits up, straight and stiff. Uh-oh. Bucky's pissed him off; he's doing his chest-puff Alpha thing.

"You gonna let me finish a fucking sentence, or what?" he snaps, and Bucky bares his teeth at him, but puts his hands up, too, concession. 

Steve un-ruffles a little. "So Clint's got this building in Bed-Stuy, it's got like eight apartments in it. He's renovating it; it's pretty trashed, but he's doing a total gut and rebuild. He's putting in, like, this whole security, air-flow, home sprinkler monitoring system. He says he can knock down some walls, and we can have one whole place and half of the other, and he'll make the other half into the system room, and he'll pay you to oversee the building."

Bucky's job is to analyze what kind of security systems their clients need, from computer to physical, and then do his best to break through them, until he can't. Sam actually designs the systems, and Wanda and Pietro, a brother/sister team, do the physical installations. Bucky and Sam also find, vet, and secure bodyguards and security teams. Sam calls it the Four Eses - _'Sekrit Squirrel Spy Stuff'_. It's a hell of a lot of fun; hell and away more fun than anything _else_ the military taught them - on that, Sam and Bucky both agree.

Steve mops his last bite of French toast through butter-and-syrup and eats it. "Also - there's no IKEA in Bed-Stuy," Steve says, as if that clinches the deal. It kind of almost does, since Bucky hates IKEA almost more than he hates subway rats. 

There's a drop of syrup on Steve's lip, and Bucky just _stares_ at it for a moment, until something clicks over in his brain. When the fuck did Clint _'Hey can I eat your leftovers?'_ Barton get the money to do _that_?

"Did he rob a bank or something?"

Steve looks shifty.

"He _robbed_ a _bank_?"

"No! No. He did not rob a bank. Tasha said something about...theRussianmob, or something."

"Jesus motherfucking Christ," Bucky says. Steve gets up with his empty plate and cup and hobbles dramatically to the sink. His toe _is_ very purple-blue bruised, but not, according to WebMD, broken. The nail looks pretty bad, too, and his shins are peppered with bruises from missing the stairs. Poor Steve - he's just a big lug of a guy who, at 27 years of age, still hasn't quite grown into his Alpha body. 

Bucky takes pity on him.

"Okay, so, we'll go look. _But_ \- he has to actually legally own the building, and it has to be asbestos-free."

"Yay!" Steve says, and bends down to give Bucky a syrup-sticky, cranberry-tangy kiss.

 

The building is actually...kind of...nice. Bucky feels bad about feeling bad about that, but he kind of wanted to be able to point out huge flaws and issues and _problems_ and go ' _Ha ha! Told you!_ '. He's not sure _why_ he wanted to do that, though. He likes Clint. He likes _all_ of Steve's friends. He's just feeling really….

Clint says something to Steve, grinning, and Steve says something back, and then they're both laughing, and Clint is putting his arm around Steve's shoulders - awkwardly, because Clint is shorter than _Bucky_ , and it's a stretch - and Bucky snaps. He shoves in between them, teeth bared, getting Steve behind him and actually _pushing_ Clint, hard. Hard enough that the Beta stumbles back a couple steps, arms windmilling.

"Just _back_ the fuck off," Bucky snarls, and Clint sort of ducks and hunches and tucks his chin down and….

And wow, Bucky feels like shit.

"Fuck. _Fuck_ , I'm sorry, I dunno - fuck."

"You okay, Buck?" Steve asks, coming around to face him, and Bucky gets his shoulder to Clint and crowds Steve so much he actually has to step back.

" _Fuck_. What the fuck is wrong with me?" he asks, putting his forehead on Steve's chest and shivering, just a little, when Steve's arms come around him. 

 

"You're nesting," Winnifred Barnes says, setting a plate of snickerdoodles down next to Steve. Steve gives her his best wide-eyed 'starving orphan' stare and takes two. Jesus.

"What does _that_ mean?" Bucky asks. He snatches a cookie out from under Steve's fingers and crams it into his mouth. His Ma scowls at him and slides the plate closer to Steve.

"Behave, Jamie, you're not five anymore. It _means_ \- you've got your Alpha now, you're planning a home together, you're _nesting_. And that makes you...protective."

"It kind of makes him a dick," Steve says, through cookie crumbs. Then he winces, shooting a sheepish look at Winnifred. She reaches out and pats his hand. 

"Yes. It does. Oh, you should have heard the stories about your third cousin Lucretia, she almost started a mutiny on the ship coming over from Estonia in eighteen...eighteen ninety-three? No, ninety-five -"

" _Ma_ ," Bucky says, and Steve kicks him under the table. " _Ow_. How long is this going to last? I _shoved_ Clint. I keep...snarling at people. I'm acting like a fu- freakin' jerk."

"Well…." Winniefred gets up and opens a cupboard, taking down various boxes and cans, and stacking them in a big, cardboard box that just _happens_ to be sitting on the counter. "Probably until you're all settled. In the meantime, go down to the herb store and get some of their calming tea, and that tincture...oh…. Chasteberry, I think it's called."

' _Chasteberry_ ', Steve mouths at him, smirking, and Bucky sticks his tongue out at Steve. Steve puts his thumb on his nose and waggles his fingers at Bucky, and Bucky really goes for it; pinkies in the corners of his mouth, thumbs dragging his eyes down, full-on raspberry in Steve's face.

" _If_ you're finished?" Winniefred says, thumping the box down onto the table, and they both jump guiltily, Steve flushing an adorable pink.

Christ, Bucky really _really_ likes this guy. ' _Shoot me now_ ', he thinks, and wipes some crumbs off Steve's chin.

"Go down to Tea For Two and ask for some calming teas."

"Ma, I don't _like_ tea," Bucky says, and Winnifred shrugs. 

"Well, it's that, or the tincture, or cannabis oil. Just don't make me have to have a visit from Officer Krupke, Riff." 

"I'm just misunderstood," Bucky sing-songs, and his Ma snorts. She shoves the box across the table, and Bucky can see it's filled with stuff like canned soup, and macaroni, and instant mashed potato packages. 

"Here, just something to tide you over," she says.

"Ma, c'mon, I have a _job_ , with an actual paycheck. I do my own shopping and everything."

"Last time I was at yours, the only thing in your icebox was four cans of Black Cherry Shasta and a tub of cream cheese icing," she says. She puts a Tupperware of snickerdoodles in Steve's hands and pats him on the head.

 

Bucky does actually break down and get a tincture ( _not_ chasteberry, which is for PMS, but something called Soothing Calm), and Steve keeps lighting up these lavender and sage candles whenever Bucky comes over.

It seems to help. Smoking half a joint before he and Steve go out _really_ helps, and Bucky does his best not to feel bad about it. It's hormones and instinct and just...being a paired Omega, basically; it's not like he's doing it on _purpose_. 

He buys Clint a ten-pound bag of some _really_ high-end coffee, though, as an apology. Then he and Steve do a lot of late-night talking, and walking around staring at apartments for rent, comparing sizes and prices and overall _stuff_. After about two weeks, they finally say 'yes' to Clint and his offer, and sign papers to rent (with an option to buy) a fourth-floor walk-up. It's a whopping 900 square feet of lathe and horse-hair plaster and splintery plank floors, but it's _their's_. The first thing Clint does is knock out some walls and section off the area at the end of the hall for the systems monitoring room. That bumps them up to almost 1000 square feet, and that's the biggest place Bucky's lived since he lived at home.

Clint calls the room his 'Command Center'; Bucky's starting to realize that the reason Clint and Steve are friends is because they're both complete nerds (and Natasha is a secret nerd; she _looks_ perfectly normal, but Bucky's caught her quoting _Sneakers_ , for fuck's sake). Clint promises that he and his crew can get their place done by November; about six months before the wedding. 

And yeah, there's gonna be a wedding, because, face it; Bucky is totally fucking head-over-heels, stupid in love with Steve. (He's 99.9 percent sure that Steve feels the exact same way right back; the .1 percent of him that has doubts he stuffs down into a hole and ignores.)

Just...he really _likes_ Steve, too. It's crazy, when you think about it. It's like some stupid rom-com or something, only Bucky's not an insecure wreck and Steve's not a...well, he _is_ kind of a loveable doof, but still…. It's _not_ just hormones and being caught, either; he can talk to Steve about anything, and Steve doesn't get weirded out when Bucky makes morbid jokes and tells him his detailed plans for when the Zombie Apocalypse happens. He can be grumpy and pissy and totally non-verbal, and Steve _gets it_ , and just settles down with a sketchbook or Netflix and lets him be fucked up until he's not.

And Bucky loves how Steve is so damn sweet, and trips over his feet, and gets all riled up when someone's being a jerk. He won't stand for anybody being hateful, he won't let name-calling or cat-calling or groping go unchallenged. He's so damn _sincere_ , and so damn empathetic.

And then, if his best doesn't work, Steve has no issues whatsoever with decking some asshole of an Alpha or condescending Beta, and he doesn't get all stupid and protect-y when Bucky jumps in.

They _fight_ good together, and that's just...fucking awesome. They fit, and every time Bucky catches Steve doing this moony, big-eyed love-sick staring, it just makes him feel… _good_. Gooey and warm and stupid. 

And then they have sex (which is awesome, though Bucky's aware he's biased; Christ, he loves Steve's cock).

 

"You don't think we're kinda...zoomin' it?" Bucky says, him and Steve stretched out in lawn chairs behind the Barne's house, watching the grandkids (Rebecca's twin girls and Lil's little boy) run around in hysterical circles under the sprinkler. It's the fourth of July, it's Steve's fucking _birthday_ , and here he is at Bucky's Ma's house, helping her grill burgers and fill the wading pool Bucky's sisters have taken over. Being so damn sweet with Bucky, and his family, and Bucky just...needs to _know_.

"I like things that go zoom," Steve says, grinning at Bucky from behind red-white-and-blue striped sunglasses, a really stupid-looking, pointy party hat on his stupid, pointy head.

Bucky snorts, and pokes Steve with his foot, and then his Ma's coming out onto the patio with a slightly lopsided cake, decorated with sparklers, and there's no more time to talk that day.

Later that night, though, Steve curls up close behind Bucky and spends about five minutes telling him exactly how much he's _not_ bothered by how fast they're going, and how much he loves being right where he is, and how much he loves Bucky, and that's just…fucking awesome.

Bucky fucking _loves_ this guy; crazy, stupid love.

He loves Steve _so_ much, he's actually getting him a six-month anniversary present, something he'd generally consider to be ridiculous. But it's _Steve_ , and he _wants_ to, and he's got the perfect fucking thing.

"That is _not_ the perfect thing," Sam tells him, fingers flying furiously over his keyboard. Sam was Air Force, and then he went to Carnegie Mellon, graduating from their School of Computer Science. He's actually wearing his ratty Carnegie sweatshirt in the chill of their office, faded red with a black Scotty dog. Because _of course_ Sam was an athlete, too - track and field.

"Yeah, it _is_ fucking perfect. What the fuck else am I gonna get him, a bowling ball?" Bucky says. He's tipped back in his office chair, his socked feet up on his desk. Wanda and Pietro are at Clint's, running cable, wire, and fiber-optics from the Command Center to one of the vacant, under-construction apartments. Most of the building is vacant, actually; just Clint (first floor) and Mrs. Pociejewski (third floor). Clint's doing some _major_ overhauling. Bucky's starting to think the Russian Mob thing is _true_.

"He already has a bowling ball," Sam says, clacking away.

"He already _has_ one, exactly. He's in a fucking _league_ ", Bucky says. And Steve is - of _course_ he is. Big Apple Rec Sports is LGBTQ friendly _and_ inclusive of Alphas and Omegas, and Steve's already signed up for the Winter session. The dork. Plus he's in one of the all-Alpha leagues at the Royal Palms Shuffleboard Club. Sometimes, Bucky just doesn't know what to _do_ with Steve. 

"I just want to squish him until he squeaks," Bucky says, and Sam shoots him a _look_ and stops typing long enough to untangle his earphones from his pocket and shove them - all fucking dramatic, the loser - into his ears.

"I am not gonna sit here and listen to sex talk, man," he says, fumbling with his iPod. "I don't tell you about me and Riley -"

"You tell me about you and Riley _all the time_ , you told me about Riley's O-face!" Bucky says, loud, but Sam just talks over him.

"And I think a six-month anniversary is damn weird. Now you gonna try and break into this, or what?" Sam says, stabbing a last few keys and looking up at Bucky, smirking.

"Bring it," Bucky says, sitting up and dragging his wireless keyboard into his lap. Three hours later, he's still there. Sam is damn tricky.

 

On their six-month anniversary, Command Central is actually done, and so is most of Steve and Bucky's new apartment (the second bedroom and second bathroom are still rough and dusty, no fixtures yet). The finished walls are smooth, painted in pale blue and grey (master bedroom and bathroom), and pale green and coffee (kitchen), and cream (livingroom). All the cabinets are the same dark espresso color, and the only furniture so far are the four, cabinet-matching stools under the counter of the kitchen pass-through. The counter's made of recycled glass, the color of an old coke bottle. The pass-through arches up high over head, with a little decorative keystone detail at the top that Steve loves. 

There are other touches like that, here and there; a fancy little niche by the door for keys and things, bits of curly leaf-and-vine relief sculpture in the corners of the doorways, a light fixture in the breakfast nook that looks like an abstract snowflake. There's going to be a gas fireplace in the living room, but they're still waiting for it to be delivered. Because they're up on the fourth floor, most of the windows don't have curtains or blinds or anything, though the bedroom has these pleated paper shades in warm amber-blue that makes the room glow when they're down, a sort of ocean grotto effect. 

The floors throughout, though, have been sanded silk-smooth, stained dark, and the last coat of urethane has dried to a high gloss when Clint hands them a piece of paper with their passcode scrawled on it, and bows them inside. The passcode is 1337 and Bucky snorts, grinning, as he punches it in.

He drops his duffle and giant trash bag full of bedding on the floor just inside the door, looking around, while Steve hops in a little circle, getting his boots off. Steve's luggage - a huge soft-sided wheelie bag and a bulging messenger bag - are already on the floor.

"Oh, yeah - new rule," Bucky says, and gets his own ratty Converse off, lining them up neatly by the door next to Steve's shoes. Neither one of them has been inside for about three weeks, and it looks...incredible.

"It's huge," Steve says, and stretches his arms up high - wide - high again. His fingertips are a good foot below the ceiling, maybe a little more. " _Huge!_ "

"It's fucking amazing," Bucky says, because it _is_. He'd found out Clint and his team had scrounged or scavenged a lot of stuff (like the planks for the floor, and the ancient, rippled glass in the cabinets in the kitchen), or found stuff at warehouses full of the salvage of gutted buildings. He's been nervous it was going to look junky or, worse, _be_ junky. But it's not; it's an upcycled dream, everything sturdy and finished and sleek, and he takes a couple running steps and slides in his socked feet halfway across the main room floor. 

"Oh my God, it's like a skating rink!" he says, and he and Steve spend the next ten minutes running and sliding and crashing into each other, laughing like idiots, their voices echoing in the empty space. Bucky goes sliding down the short hall that leads to the bathrooms and bedrooms, and stops short in the doorway to the master. The blinds are down, and instead of the air mattress Steve said he'd borrowed from Natasha, there's a _bed_.

A really _gorgeous_ bed, standing up tall on tapered legs that continue straight up into smooth, narrow spindles; a four-poster that looks sleek and airy, not heavy. More spindles of varying heights make the headboard, and it looks like the curving back of a wave, or the tops of grasses, a smooth, undulating line. The whole thing is painted about five shades darker than the light, grey-blue walls. A piece of gauzy material the same amber-blue as the blinds is draped over the two tall posts at the head, and the bed itself is made up with white-gold-blue striped cotton sheets. Every throw Bucky bought six months ago, and all of the pillows from his Ma's couch-thing are there, too, all heaped and strewn about. The bed looks _decadent_ ; squishy-soft and comfortable.

"Do you like it?" Steve asks, standing behind him, and Bucky leans back into his solid bulk, arms going up to curl around Steve's neck, fingers in Steve's hair.

"Are you fucking kidding? It's beautiful. Where did you - _how_ did you - ?"

"From Tasha, and with Clint's help," Steve says. "She's got a friend who makes furniture for a couple of off-Broadway theaters? And this one was for sale 'cause the company went out of business. They just had to reinforce it a little and add some bracing underneath, since it was just for looking at and leaning on in the play; nobody actually slept on it."

"Or fucked on it, I bet,' Bucky says, and Steve huffs, laughing.

"I hope not," Steve says. Bucky twists around, until he's pressed chest-to-chest with Steve, arms around his neck again, tugging him down into a long, slow kiss. "Happy six-month anniversary," Steve says, and Bucky stares up at him.

"Really? This is my sixth-month anniversary present?"

Steve stares back. "Yeah? Um…is that stupid? Too cheesy? Too precious? Do you hate it?"

"Are you fuckin' nuts? It's awesome. _And_ \- it goes perfectly with _your_ six-month anniversary present." Steve's expression goes from doubtful to relieved to excited in about three seconds.

"Yeah? Really?"

"Really," Bucky says. He heads back to the living room, towing Steve behind him by the hand. Down in the side pocket of his duffle is the little blue-glass vial he got at Tea for Two, and he turns around and holds it up so Steve can see.

"Happy six months, baby," he says. Steve looks at the vial and then back to Bucky.

"You got me poppers for our anniversary?"

"What? No fucking way you've ever done poppers. No!" Bucky says, and Steve grins. Such a ridiculous fucking grin, all white teeth and happy eyes, and Bucky wants to eat him up. Or out. 

One of those. 

"It's not fucking poppers, Jesus. It's this stuff that basically makes Omegas go into a kind of heat. A whole lotta _'fuck me now'_ without so much of that _'I will fucking kill you'_." Bucky shakes the vial, hearing the little slosh of liquid inside. "It works on you, too; I mean - it'll get you all...growly-pouncy," Bucky says, and Steve's eyes go wide.

"You got me _sex pollen_ for our anniversary?"

"Oh my fucking God, you are _such_ a fucking nerd!" Bucky says, but he's laughing, and Steve is, and suddenly Steve sort of lunges and grabs Bucky up like he did before, hauling him right up onto Steve so Bucky yelps and locks his legs around Steve's hips, arms around Steve's shoulders, the vial clenched in his fist.

"You know I don't need you to...to dose yourself to have really good sex with you, right?" Steve says, and Bucky rolls his hips a little, grinding against Steve. Rolls his eyes, too. He's half hard already, just being here with him, just talking about it, just smelling him and feeling him and _having_ him.

"I know, you big lug. Thing is, this stuff gets right down into that Alpha hindbrain of yours and gets you going _just right_ , so you can knot me again," he says, and watches Steve's pupils dilate out so big, his eyes are basically black holes with a thin ring of electric blue around them.

"....Really?" Steve says, and Bucky leans in and kisses him hard, fucking into Steve's mouth with his tongue, biting at his lower lip when he pulls back. 

"Fucking really," Bucky says. Alpha's can basically _only_ knot when their partner is in heat, so it's not something Steve's done with anybody but Bucky, same as Bucky's only done it with Steve. And he really, _really_ liked it, and he really _really_ wants to do it again. 

"Jesus," Steve says, sounding a little breathless. He hoists Bucky up a little higher and starts marching for the bedroom, kissing Bucky as they go, and Bucky kisses right back, holding on tight.

The stuff takes about half an hour to really work, so they end up taking quick showers (thank God Bucky remembered to bring towels), and Steve produces a little mini-cooler from the kitchen and bottles of water and juice, which he stashes next to the bed. 

Bucky makes sure the front door is locked and the security system is on, turning off lights as he heads back. The light coming in through the blinds is antique gold, shading to plum-blue - sunset's around five, now, or earlier. The overhead light is off, and Steve's got _candles_ burning - six big jar candles up on the floating shelf behind the bed. They smell warm and green and dark, like cut pine branches or moss. 

There's a gas fire pit set into the wall (the same as the future living room one, only about half the size), and it's _on_ , the blue-gold flames dancing over the copper-red and green fire glass. Bucky can _feel_ the heat - he can't fucking believe he didn't realize it was installed and ready to go - and he just stands there for a second, blinking at it.

But only for a second, because….

Because Steve's sprawled on the bed, half the throws already on the floor, propped on pillows, watching Bucky. He's like a statue, all ivory and shadows, his hair curling down over his forehead, still damp. His cock is hard, lying against his belly, his fingers curled loosely around the shaft. Bucky is pretty sure he sees it pulse harder - thicker - as he watches. 

"Fuck, look at you," Bucky says, and a wave of hot-cold-hot shivers through him, making him take in a hitching gasp of air. His skin feels warm, his fingertips are tingling, and he's _hard_ all at once; cock and nipples both aching. "You look so damn...beautiful," Bucky says, and his thigh hits the mattress edge and he's climbing on, crawling up, straddling Steve's thighs.

He can feel the heat of Steve's body against his skin, hot to the touch. His balls just brush over Steve's, and Steve hisses, his hips twitching upward, thighs like iron under Bucky's. Bucky leans down and takes one of Steve's nipples in his mouth, licking and then sucking, pulling, and Steve's big hands smooth down his shoulders and back - curl around his ass and squeeze. Pull him open, and then pull him _down_ , so their cocks rub together.

"Oh, fuck, fuck -" Bucky says, breathless, and moves to nip at Steve's other nipple. Steve makes a low noise, half groan, half growl, and Bucky feels that _clench_ , that deep, internal throb and flex of muscles that are dormant most of the time. He feels a surge of liquid heat, and Steve gasps, open-mouth.

"I can smell you, God, Bucky...getting wet for me," Steve says, and his hips grind upward, his hands kneading Bucky's ass.

"Smell _you_ ," Bucky says, against Steve's neck, and he can; Steve's glossed with a light sheen of clean sweat that smells like...fuck, like salt and sugar-smoke, like _Steve_ , like his Alpha. It's intoxicating. 

"Buck, Bucky, Jesus…." Steve says, and he's kneading Bucky's ass, arching under Bucky, fingertips pushing in toward Bucky's hole and then rubbing over it, sliding in the slick there, pushing _in_ , just a little, and Bucky groans and grinds down - pushes back. Then he's sitting up and grabbing Steve's wrists and pinning them to the bed, leaning down. Hips moving, panting a little. 

"Wanna ride you, wanna feel you up in me and just fucking grind on you all fucking night," he says, and Steve strains up toward him, kissing his mouth and neck and shoulder, sloppy and desperate.

"Anything, fuck, anything you want, sweetheart, please -"

"Oh, yeah, baby," Bucky says, and pushes Steve's hands up, over his head. "Just like that, ask me, wanna hear you say it." He squirms down and goes back to Steve's nipples - to his ribs and belly and hips. Kissing and licking and sucking, marking up all that gorgeous, golden skin with his teeth and his lips and his tongue. Dragging the ends of his shoulder-length hair over Steve's skin, watching him shiver.

Bucky takes his time moving down, until he's got his mouth right on Steve's cock, just doing this slow, lazy lick from root to head and back again. Steve's wet, too - little bubbles and beads of precome welling up out of him, savory-salt, slick on Bucky's tongue. He sucks lightly, savoring the taste, and Steve's thighs are _trembling_ , his hips moving, moving, moving. He's making these low, rough noises, breathless, and they go right to Bucky's cock.

"You like that, you like it," Bucky says, and _fuck_ , he's so fucking hard, he's so _wet_ , everything in him clenching down and pulsing open, engorged and tender and so fucking ready, and he _loves_ it. Loves it almost more than real heat, because he didn't have to kick half of Brooklyn's ass to get here. He takes one of Steve's balls in his mouth, sucking, and Steve breaks a little.

"Bucky...oh God, Bucky, please, c'mon, please -" Steve says, and Bucky looks up to see him, his eyes huge and his face flushed, his throat and chest. His hands are fisted in the pillows, his chest is heaving for air, his belly going tight and concave with every gasping breath. " _Please_."

"You're being so fucking good, baby," Bucky says, but he slides up Steve's body and straddles him again. Reaches down and behind himself and lifts Steve's cock up, holding it in place while he gets himself situated. Lowers himself down just a little - just enough - to get the tip of it against his hole. 

He holds them both there for a long, long moment, rubbing slowly in a little circle, pressing lightly, his hole clenching and opening, the second one, deeper in, doing the same; shivery-hot waves of heat rolling through him.

And then Steve _growls_ , shuddering, and his hips punch up and Bucky goes for it, goes _down_ , Steve's beautiful, thick, perfect cock cramming right into him, sliding in and then _in_ , and they both gasp when Steve breaches that second opening. 

"Oh, Christ, oh _fuck_ , God, God, God -" Bucky says; practically shouts. Steve's hands come free from the pillows, down onto Bucky's hips, fingers squeezing tight; he's thrusting up, hard, deep, fast. It feels like he's knocking the air out of Bucky's lungs with every thrust; like he's driving in so deep Bucky could taste him.

Bucky spreads his knees and leans back and just fucking rides it. The air is so warm; hot against his skin, golden-blue and spangled with fire. His eyes flutter half shut and he clenches _down_. He can feel the ridge of Steve's cock, where the head flares; he can feel every fucking inch of him. He puts his hand on his own cock, squeezing, and Steve's hand grabs for him - drags him away.

"No, no, not yet, almost, oh fuck, _fuck_ -" Steve drags Bucky down, arms going around him, mouth on him, _teeth_ , and Bucky claws at Steve's shoulders and bites back, tasting sweat, tasting iron and sugar. Feeling Steve's knot, swelling inside, as he squirms and grinds _down_ and clenches, hard. 

Steve gasps, going rigid, and then moving again, frantic, shouting against his neck, coming.

Bucky swears he can _feel_ it, hot and slick, pulsing into him. He's gasping, panting, dragging air into his lungs that just doesn't seem like it's enough. Fucking lightheaded, burning up, slick with sweat, slick between his thighs and his balls are crushed up tight against Steve, against his own body. His cock is pushing into Steve's belly, moving his PA, and it's making him fucking _crazy_. 

He twists and pushes and gets his hands on Steve's chest - pushes himself upright and sinks a little lower. Steve pushes in a little _deeper_ and Bucky keens, his hips grinding down, jerking, rocking. Frenzied as Steve's knot seals him up tight and Steve...Steve is still coming.

"Fuck, fuck, need you to - _Christ_ -" Bucky says, and Steve, wild-eyed, wraps one huge hand around Bucky's cock and squeezes _hard_. Starts to jack him, fast and tight and fucking brutal, his other hand on Bucky's ass, pulling him open, his own body moving on pure reflex, pure instinct. Pushing up, pushing up, wanting _in_ , even when there's no where to go; just deep as he can get.

Bucky arches his back and lifts his hips; feels Steve's cock, his knot, holding him fast, stretching him wide, opening him up so fucking _deep_. And Steve's hand, hot and demanding, tip of his thumb on the PA, moving it, pressing down, and Bucky cries out, a strangled curse, coming.

Coming so hard it almost hurts, every muscle tight, singing with tension as his thighs squeeze Steve's hips, and his body squeezes Steve's cock, and his lungs seem to empty, leaving him gasping, dizzy, soaring.

His come is across Steve's chest and shoulder and arm, slicking his hand, and Steve's eyes are wide, so wide and so dark, his mouth is red, lip swollen. Bucky _bit_ him, fuck, Bucky can _taste_ Steve's blood on his mouth and he groans.

Curling down over Steve, as Steve grabs him and rolls, getting Bucky on his back and Bucky's legs up over his shoulders, pushing in impossibly _deeper_. Bucky _shouts_ , arching up hard, and Steve gets one hand into his hair and yanks, pulling Bucky's head back. Steve's mouth comes down on Bucky's throat, close to his shoulder, and he _bites_ , and Bucky's coming again, and Steve is, and holy fuck, fucking _hell_ , Bucky cannot think, he can't _breathe_.

He's nerve-endings and fire and lightning and ice; he's half blind, and his throat aches from trying to yell without air. Steve is so fucking deep in him, so heavy over him. He's hot and slick and perfect, exactly fucking _right_. Christ, Bucky loves him so fucking much it hurts, and he wants to do it again, fucking _'do it again, Steve, do it again'_.

"Gimme...minute," Steve says, gasping against Bucky's neck, fingers letting loose of Bucky's hair, and Bucky locks his ankles behind Steve's neck, and gets his arms around Steve's ribs, and just hangs on to his stupidly perfect, perfectly gorgeous Alpha.

"One...minute, baby...then...giddy-up," he rasps, and Steve laughs.

Bucky feels like he just sky-dived without a parachute, adrenaline still roaring through him. Steve's weight grounds him, his hot, caramel-sweet scent surrounds him, and Bucky's pretty sure he's never in his life felt anything like this. 

Never in his life felt this good, even as his fucking thigh starts to cramp, making him kick a little, whining. Steve grunts when Bucky's heel hits his shoulder blade.

"Sorry, babe. Jesus, m'gonna marry you," Bucky mutters, and Steve lifts his head a little, pushing at the fan of tangled hair that's across Bucky's face, hand sticky. 

"Yeah you are," Steve says, and Bucky gives in and squishes him, hard as he can.

Steve squeaks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case - Bucky voluntarily takes a drug that brings on a sort of false heat.  
> They both smoke pot.

**Author's Note:**

> Just in case...there are people 'in heat', who have sex while under that influence. Full consent of everybody involved, but - be warned.


End file.
